


sometimes, all I think about is you

by obiter



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Akaashi Keiji is a Mess, Akaashi Keiji-centric, Akaashi has dirty thoughts, Bokuto Koutarou Being Bokuto Koutarou, Bokuto is loved, Bottom Bokuto Koutarou, Falling In Love, Fukurodani loves their captain ok, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28556727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obiter/pseuds/obiter
Summary: The following are some of Bokuto’s favorite things: volleyball; grilled meat; spiking the ball and scoring a point; food that is meat but not grilled meat; attention; owls; food that is not meat but is also not vegetables.Now, standing in the empty locker room after the day’s practice match just a few feet away from Bokuto and Kuroo kissing, Akaashi has to add “boys” to Bokuto’s List of Favorite Things.(Or, alternatively, Akaashi falls in love gracelessly and spends years pining until Bokuto takes mercy on him.)
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Bokuto Koutarou/Kuroo Tetsurou, Fukurodani & their Captain
Comments: 10
Kudos: 166





	sometimes, all I think about is you

The following are some of Bokuto’s favorite things: volleyball; grilled meat; spiking the ball and scoring a point; food that is meat but not grilled meat; attention; owls; food that is not meat but is also not vegetables.

There are other items on that list, some which change daily, others which never do. Akaashi knows he is somewhere on that list, along with the rest of their teammates (even Konoha, who is, arguably, the most likely to mess up Bokuto’s hair when the latter pisses him off). Also on the list is Bokuto’s family. Somewhere on the list are the lame t-shirts that Bokuto buys at tournaments. 

Somewhere high on the list, even if Akaashi doesn’t know the exact placement, are “getting his way” and “cute girls cheering him on.” 

Now, standing in the empty locker room after the day’s practice match just a few feet away from Bokuto and Kuroo kissing, Akaashi has to add “boys” to Bokuto’s List of Favorite Things.

“Why are you pouting?” Kuroo’s voice is soft, teasing, and accompanied by equally soft, wet sounds that Akaashi knows are kisses. “You’re the one who made the bet.”

Bokuto just grunts. The lockers creak behind him, and Akaashi can clearly visualize the way he must be squirming. How many times has he seen Bokuto sulk and wriggle like a petulant child forced to visit a great-aunt who opens every visit by pinching his cheeks? The smallest reason can spin Bokuto into a tantrum; the only reason he hasn’t wedged himself into a locker to pout is because Kuroo has him pinned by his hips. 

“Bo, come on. We can stop if you want. This isn’t any fun if you’re going to pretend I’m not here.”

Akaashi chances a glance around the edge of the concrete wall to see the two older boys. Bokuto’s face is downturned, twisted away, but Akaashi can imagine the unhappy curve of his mouth. 

Kuroo is petting his hip with one hand. The other is cupping Bokuto’s jaw. For all that he grumbles about how Akaashi and the rest of Fukurodani coddle Bokuto, Kuroo isn’t above tenderness for one of his closest friends.

For his boyfriend, Akaashi swallows, the conclusion slow and heavy like a second set score of 23-18, after your team already lost the first set. 

“You said,” Bokuto starts, Akaashi’s attention snapping to him like always, “you said that you would fuck me. The bet was that you would.”

Kuroo snorts, a little edge to it that Akaashi knows is reserved just for when Bokuto is being difficult but makes him want to intervene anyway. “You’re going to be sore. We have a full day of practice matches tomorrow. You’re going to whine about being sore and say it’s all my fault, and that little first year of yours will have another reason to hate me. He might just kill me if you walk into the gym with a limp.”

 _I already have enough reasons to hate you_ , Akaashi thinks, curling his hands into tight fists. 

“Fine! Just your fingers then.”

“This isn’t a negotiation, bird brain. You really want Akaashi to kill me tomorrow.”

“He wouldn’t kill you,” Bokuto says. A pause, then, “Not tomorrow. He’s too smart to kill you with so many witnesses-- _ouch,_ Kuroo!”

“Just my fingers then. Now turn around.”

Akaashi thinks it will be fine if he doesn’t have his cell phone just this one night. He doesn’t want to hear anymore.

. . . 

Once upon a time, Akaashi walked into a hot and noisy gymnasium and saw a shooting star. Soaring above the others, untouchable to their outstretched hands, poised to shoot right through the roof, there was Bokuto Koutarou. The world narrowed to just him and this Bokuto Koutarou, and Akaashi could only watch as Bokuto seemed to rise higher, his arm winding back. His hit cut through the scream of sneakers against wood flooring, silenced the scrambling shouts of strategy of the other side. The echo of the ball slamming against the floor, the responding silence, stayed with Akaashi long after he left Fukurodani. 

Once upon a time.

 _Who plays volleyball like that?_ _Bokuto Koutarou does_ , Akaashi says to himself. He turns the name over and over in his mouth. He thinks about the recommendation Fukurodani granted him, a dependable setter from Mori Middle School. His stats weren’t outstanding, but his coaches all said he was serious, earnest, and unafraid of hard work. 

Smart, steady, stable, easy to work with.

On a team with Bokuto Koutarou who demanded all the air in a room just by entering it, a wing spiker who could win a game just as easily as lose it, Akaashi can already see his role. Setter was familiar--toss the ball to a spiker, set the team up for victory. Setters and spikers; without one, the other is as useless as a nail without a hammer. 

The second role would be harder. Bokuto looked like he didn’t understand the meaning of the words “hold back,” nor did he look like a boy willing to learn. He chest-bumped his own coach and tried to spin his own captain, Aoki, a dour third-year middle blocker who threatened to kick Bokuto off the team every ten minutes just that one practice alone. A blocked cross almost sent Bokuto barrelling off the court and under the water table were it not for the combined effort of the libero and Aoki.

(“Owls don’t give up!” Sasaki, the vice-captain, teases. He pulls on the dejected ends of Bokuto’s hair, hip checks him like one would a younger brother, and pinches Bokuto’s nose until the boy is sputtering and frustrated in another way.)

Bokuto Koutarou, a star. The thought stays, and Akaashi tucks it away behind his heart and accepts the invitation to Fukurodani’s nationals-bound volleyball team. 

. . .

Bokuto says his name all the time, and as the practices go on, eventually he pronounces it correctly. 

“Just a lil bit,” Bokuto wheedles, easily breaking out of Konoha and Sarukui’s hold. “Maybe an hour.”

“That’s not ‘a lil bit,’” Konoha says, his tone a dead mimic of Bokuto’s whine. “Stop bothering the first year.”

He gets his arms under Bokuto’s armpits and pulls. Sarukui’s about to grab Bokuto’s legs when Akaashi finally speaks.

“Okay,” Akaashi says. Konoha and Sarukui wear matching expressions of pity. Bokuto preens. “Just for a lil bit.”

“A lil bit” turns into two hours. “A lil bit” turns into one hundred spikes. “A lil bit” turns into post-weekend, weekend practice. “A lil bit” turns into Akaashi memorizing the curve of Bokuto’s mouth, his wide eyes tracking the ball as it hits just inside the line. Bokuto laughs, light on his feet, and Akaashi wants to cup the sound in his hands, drink it like ice cold water after summer practice. _Hey hey hey_ , Bokuto shouts, spins on his heel, and praises Akaashi like a supplicant at a shrine. _Your tosses are the best_ , Bokuto glows and Akaashi feels a flash of divinity. 

His clumsy mouth can’t form anything but a tepid thanks, and Bokuto chastises him for his boredom but he’s still smiling.

“A lil bit” turns into love. 

. . . 

Bokuto isn’t limping, so he’s in top form in the morning. He struts around the court, demands every toss with an imperious hand. Every unblocked spike sends him sky high in delight, big golden eyes as clear as the summer sky. Every blocked spike makes his shoulders curve, but he doesn’t flee to the nearest small space. Instead, Bokuto tugs at his hair and sets his big eyes on Akaashi, on Washio, on Sasaki until someone gives him attention.

“Don’t mind, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi tells him during break after another spike is blocked when handing him a full water bottle. Bokuto isn’t in low spirits, but he’s not pleased with his performance and already the third-years are preparing themselves for Bokuto to break down in the afternoon if Ubugawa keeps freezing them out. 

Creeping unhappiness is reflected back at him when Bokuto finally looks at him, and Akaashi wonders how anyone could deny Bokuto anything. No wonder Kuroo fucked him with his fingers last night. Maybe Akaashi should give the other boy more credit; Bokuto looked at him with those big pleading eyes and Kuroo resisted giving in completely. Akaashi’s mouth is dry. “We can practice spikes this evening.”

“100 spikes?” Bokuto takes the water bottle.

Akaashi smiles. “100 spikes.”

. . . 

“Do you know my favorite part of you?” Kuroo asks. 

Akaashi tends to be practical and pragmatic. He’s not prone to theatrics. Sure, he’s not above throwing his entire body into catching a receive or knotting his fingers in his own hair when a match is too close and Bokuto is one block from spiraling into a mood. But he’s not usually dramatic.

That being said, Akaashi thinks he is being punished because he forgot his knee pads in the locker room and he’s walked in on Kuroo and Bokuto again.

“My ass?” Bokuto laughs, a bubbly thing in the quiet of the room. Akaashi wonders if Kuroo--shameless, opportunistic Kuroo--took advantage of having Bokuto’s rear in his hands, and squeezed. 

Kuroo laughs, too, and Akaashi does hate it. It’s not like his braying laughter that flows over the gymnasium when Yamamoto whiffs a serve after boasting a service ace. This laugh isn’t how he laughs when Kozume makes a quiet joke during lunch. 

This is more of a huff of air, a delicate thing that earns him a kiss from Bokuto. “No, but that’s in my top 5. Just outside the top 3--” 

Bokuto’s outraged shout gets an _I’m sorry, sorry, couldn’t resist_ and a dozen shushes when Bokuto starts to complain.

“Why would you mention that?” There’s a thump and Akaashi thinks Bokuto hit him. Good. “I’m not gonna let you put it in if you’re just going to be a jerk, jerk.”

There’s a scuffle and Akaashi looks around the corner to see Kuroo blowing fart noises against Bokuto’s cheeks and Bokuto pulling at Kuroo’s flop of hair, his entire face scrunched up and turning away into the locker. 

Akaashi watches.

“I wasn’t going to put it in anyway,” Kuroo argues, blowing another noise this time on Bokuto’s chin. Bokuto swats at him. “Hey Bo, look at me.”

“You’re not even in my Top 5 favorite people--”

“I don’t know how your team puts up with you, you’re not cute enough to get away with it--”

“I hate cats--”

“Owls are basically cats with wings--”

“I hope Yaku beats you in arm wrestling until the end of time.” Bokuto finally looks at Kuroo, eyes blazing, and Akaashi has to dive out of sight. His heart pounds. He hopes Kuroo loses to everyone in arm wrestling until the end of time. 

“It’s your eyes.” Kuroo’s voice drops, but the room gets warmer. “Your eyes are my favorite part of you.”

The kissing starts, but Akaashi doesn’t leave. He slides down the wall, catches himself on his hands so he doesn’t make a noise as he sits. He wonders if Bokuto would make those same pleased noises if Akaashi kissed him. What would he do if Akaashi told him he had pretty eyes. 

Akaashi doesn’t leave. He just covers his face. 

. . . 

“Bokuto is simple-minded,” Shirofuku, Bokuto’s Yukippe, tells Akaashi when he catches her pointing out a pretty dark-haired girl with grey eyes to Bokuto before the semi-finals. Akaashi is not the starting setter, _yet_ , because Sasaki is still here and, while Bokuto says Akaashi’s tosses are the best, Sasaki is still better at wrangling Bokuto.

Akaashi watches the two of them often, since Sasaki sometimes waves him away when he hovers too close to the mercurial ace. 

“I usually pick out a first-year, someone who’s less likely to be familiar with Bo’s...everything.” She smiles, tucking hair behind her ear. “It gets him into a good mindset, knowing a pretty girl is watching him. But don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty of people in our class that don’t like him. Bokuto’s the kind of player you want to watch and cheer for.”

Suzumeda cuts in, pushing a volleyball into Akaashi’s restless hands. “Bokuto’s joy is infectious. When I watch him, I feel like I could beat three setters all by myself, too.”

Akaashi looks at both girls for a long second. Both of them are watching Bokuto and Sasaki, grinning as Sasaki pinches Bokuto’s cheeks. The setter is about the same height as Bokuto, with eyes as lively as Bokuto’s. He’s much more cheerful than Aoki, and Akaashi wishes he could be as free with his touches as Sasaki is.

When Sasaki takes a nasty hit to his head during the second set and Bokuto tries to follow him off the court, it is Suzumeda that sing-songs “but Bokuto-kun, Mimi-chan came to see you, Fukurodani’s ace! There she is, in the fourth row!” 

When they lose the match, despite Bokuto’s steady shoulders and sure hand, it is Shirofuku who ruffles Bokuto’s hair and hoots. She opens up her wallet, pulls out yen that is neatly and separately folded from the rest of the bills, and offers to buy Bokuto juice from the vending machines when Bokuto’s mood drops again during practice the next day when Sasaki doesn’t show up. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, volleyball in his hands. Bokuto gives him a listless look, slurping away at the second berry juice Shirofuku bought him. “We start the next set in five minutes. In that time, please get yourself together because I will be tossing to you first.”

Until now, Akaashi has mostly gone along with Bokuto’s whims. He keeps quiet and unshakable before Bokuto’s moods. He speaks for himself, never tells Bokuto what to do. To do so now, to direct Bokuto so boldly, makes Akaashi nervous. 

But Bokuto just finishes his juice with a long sip, squeezing the box as he finishes. Then he smiles. “Okay, Akaashi. Make it a good one.”

. . . 

Akaashi, to be honest, barely knows anything about Bokuto. Bokuto is a star come to life, but that conclusion is useless to everyone else. Even calling Bokuto a “star player,” earns Akaashi curious looks. The first time, Konoha bluntly asked if he was ill with Komi popping up at his elbow to offer to walk him to the nurse’s office. 

“He is a great player, but a star?” One of the third-year players, a pinch server, sounds doubtful. “I guess the talent is there, but Bokuto’s exhausting. If he wasn’t half as good, Aoki would’ve kicked him off the team the first time he claimed to have forgotten how to hit a straight.”

Thus, Akaashi knows he must go beyond his empirical knowledge of Bokuto. He needs to find out more about him. It would be easiest to simply ask Bokuto, but his answers are either frustratingly short or long and meandering. Akaashi once asked Bokuto his favorite color, only to get a three-minute monologue on how Bokuto was spoiled for choice because he looked good in all the colors and it would be cruel to name just one.

“Cruel to who?” Washio had asked, genuinely curious. 

Bokuto had just blinked and stared at Washio as though surprised someone would question him. 

“To me. It’d be too hard to choose. Maybe even to the other colors.”

The second best choice is probably Sasaki, but Akaashi is slowly getting more playing time than the older student and he’s worried that Sasaki will think Akaashi wants to take his spot on the team and in Bokuto’s esteem before graduation. And, although Akaashi wants that spot, wants to be the one to bring out Bokuto’s potential, he understands that Sasaki’s hand has been at Bokuto’s shoulder for longer. 

Shirofuku laughs, laughing harder when Akaashi furrows his brow. 

“It’s not magic, Akaashi. Sasaki has three little siblings--triplets.” She can barely speak through her laughter. “If Sasaki can handle three six-year-olds, he can handle Bokuto.”

Akaashi looks over to where Sasaki is bringing watermelon to Bokuto. “ _Now_ you can have dessert,” Sasaki says. “I told you yellow peppers aren’t so bad.”

Konoha has almost nothing kind to say about Bokuto, but Akaashi catches them after practice. Bokuto’s mood had been off enough that he hadn’t invited Akaashi to run with him. Akaashi’s torn between showing up anyway or going home and trying to get ahead of his literature reading. 

The guilt wins out and he shows up, ready to run. But Konoha is already there, stretching his quads. 

“Only three laps,” Konoha repeats himself louder when Bokuto complains. “And if you leave me behind, I’m going to tell everyone you failed your math quiz. After I kick your ass.”

“But you promised!”

Sarukui shares his after-school snacks with Bokuto. Komi lies to Shirofuku and pretends he didn’t see which way Bokuto ran to avoid paying back their volleyball manager. Washio agrees to let Bokuto sit on his shoulders and gamely plays mecha battle chicken against two third-years even though he, at least, knows the coach will yell at them for being reckless during break. 

Kuroo is the one who actually tells him more about Bokuto. 

. . . 

Bokuto is the baby of his family.

Bokuto has two much older sisters who dote on him. The oldest, Kazue, lives in Okinawa and raised Bokuto herself while their parents worked. She would cart Bokuto to their second sister’s, Koharu’s, football matches and then take both her siblings home. She would make Bokuto cute lunches, filled with onigiri that looked like owls and octopus hotdogs and oranges with notches at the top so Bokuto could peel his own fruit easily. She bought Bokuto’s first pair of long knee pads because she didn’t want him to get hurt while playing volleyball.

She moved to Naha after university and married a former classmate. Bokuto says she’s happy and maybe will visit this summer. 

Koharu tried to get Bokuto into football, but he hated running around all the time and refused to understand why he couldn’t touch the ball with his hands. He wanted to be goalie, but the other goalie was faster so Bokuto was stuck playing defender. 

One of Koharu’s teammates suggested volleyball, so she signed her brother up and took him to his first game. When Bokuto sulked after losing and being unable to spike the ball, she pinched his cheeks and bought him ice cream. 

She played football in university, but never went pro. She moved to Tokyo when Bokuto was able to walk himself to volleyball practice. She is now a speech therapist. Owls are her favorite animal, and she’s the one who bought Bokuto his first Vabo-chan keychain. 

Through Kuroo, Akaashi learns. 

. . . 

Sasaki loses his temper exactly once with Bokuto. Maybe. He doesn’t raise his voice like Aoki did, raising thunder in their gymnasium while Bokuto stared at his shoes. He doesn’t kick Bokuto in the ass or smack him in the back of the head like Konoha prefers. He doesn’t address Bokuto with ice or disdain the way Akaashi does sometimes, exhausted and frustrated and so in love with this reckless, infuriating boy. 

It’s the last game of the season and they lost to Itachiyama and their wunderkind first-year. The third-years are silent, faces still wet with tears. Even Akaashi wants to break a little bit.

Bokuto had beelined to the sinks, folding in on himself like a piece of paper. The clean lines of his body, the sturdiness of him, is crumpled in a little ball and he’s looking at the tiled floor with limpid eyes, like the tears he cried on the court left him empty.

Sasaki calmly goes over to him and squats down, feet firmly planted. 

“Bokuto,” He says. “What do I always tell you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

Sasaki grasps Bokuto by the front of his jersey and yanks. “Owls don’t give up.”

Komi grabs Akaashi’s elbow. Akaashi wonders when it was that he stood up. 

“Owls don’t give up,” Sasaki repeats it again, his voice louder than the slam of Bokuto’s serve going out-of-bounds. “And neither do you.”

Akaashi doesn’t understand and, judging by the confused looks on his teammates, neither does anyone else. But it doesn’t matter, because Bokuto is looking at Sasaki like he just shared a brand new volleyball super move.

After today, Bokuto is his responsibility and Akaashi hopes he can shoulder this duty. 

. . . 

The day Bokuto is voted captain, Akaashi sits down with a notebook and writes. It’s brash to think he can narrow Bokuto Koutarou to a single notebook, but he tries. He writes down everything he knows about Bokuto. There is a section on his weaknesses. Each weakness has bullet points on how to deal with it.

There is a section on Bokuto’s likes and dislikes. Sometimes the lists change, but the top three likes and bottom three dislikes never change.

There is a section on Bokuto’s fears. It is very short, but “spiders” is underlined three times and “mutant boars” is underlined twice. 

There is a section on the people in Bokuto’s life. Kuroo’s subsection is the biggest and Akaashi blushes red and hot as he writes all the ways Kuroo cares for Bokuto. They’re not boyfriends, Akaashi learned this when he worked up the courage to ask Kozume if Kuroo and Bokuto were dating. 

But they do fool around, Kozume had said. So Akaashi is forced to relive the wet, sloppy sound of Kuroo fingering Bokuto in the locker room. He relives the way Bokuto keened when Kuroo pinched his nipples. He relives the way Bokuto whispered Kuroo’s name when the boy made him come. 

Akaashi grips the pen tight, presses his face to the cool wood of the desk. Bokuto’s flushed face taunts him for another thirty seconds and then Akaashi gives up. He covers his head with one arm and shoves one hand into his sleep pants. It’s too dry, too rough, but Akaashi bites his lip and thumbs at the tip of his cock and thinks about Bokuto’s tongue there. 

. . .

“But I didn’t vote!” Bokuto whines. He’s already thrown the volleyball he was playing with so now he’s left to make frustrated gestures in the air. He’s in danger of hitting Washio with each flail, but the taller boy just takes it genially, pushing Bokuto’s hand out of the way before it smacks him. “I didn’t even know what the paper was for.”

Konoha is scowling. “This guy…” He growls. “It’s bad enough that he was voted captain already, but now he wants us to vote him again.”

“My vote could be the tie-breaker!” Bokuto exclaims. “Maybe Konoha would have won--”

Sarukui snorts. “You’d vote for Konoha?”

“It’s a hypothetical!” Bokuto looks at Akaashi, then. “Did I use that right?”

Akaashi nods. Bokuto beams at him. Sasaki sighs.

“There’s no need for a tie-breaker, Bokuto. Everyone voted for you.”

. . . 

When Bokuto finds out that Kuroo was voted captain, too, the first thing he does is schedule a practice match.

“Tomorrow, we’re going to win!” Bokuto cheers, jumping into the air. When no one moves, he raises his hands a little, palms up. Encouraging. But only Komi jumps a little. Konoha half-raises a fist into the air. “25 to 0!”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi sighs. “That’s not possible. Besides, we can’t have a practice match tomorrow. You haven’t even asked Nekoma yet--”

“I texted Kuroo five minutes ago.”

“We have to schedule practice matches at least twenty-four hours in advance.”

“It’ll be unofficial.”

“Where will we have it, at the local park?” Akaashi is asking sarcastically, but Bokuto lights up.

“You’re a genius, Akaashi!” He cheers, again, rounding on Akaashi and reaching out like he might try to swing him up and spin him.

Akaashi side-steps Bokuto neatly and sacrifices Konoha to Bokuto’s enthusiasm. The second-year squawks as Bokuto tries to toss him in the air. Akaashi ignores them both and goes to find the coach.

Akaashi fully intends to make sure that they do not have a practice match with Nekoma the next day. Bokuto getting his way so early in his captainship is probably dangerous, and, moreover, the team needs rest. The sting of their loss is still fresh. Even if Bokuto seems to have brushed off the memory, the rest of the players are still a little sluggish.

In the end, however, Bokuto gets his way, like usual, and Akaashi capitulates, like usual. And, like usual, everything ends up all the better because they win. The third-years stand tall, Bokuto at the head. 

Akaashi becomes vice-captain, though. He slides into the position easily and unopposed. 

“If you don’t think we will work well together, I will step down.” 

Bokuto just blinks at him, volleyballs scattered all around. “But we do work well together. We work the best together.” Bokuto tilts his head, his lively eyes darting across Akaashi’s face. “Haven’t we been working together already?”

Akaashi smiles.

. . . 

Akaashi likes Kozume. The other second-year is quiet and gives Akaashi exhausted looks whenever Kuroo and Bokuto get loud. Akaashi appreciates having another cool head around, even though Kozume is more likely to leave Kuroo and Bokuto to their own devices instead of trying to talk them down from whatever shenanigans that keep them busy. 

Akaashi is still hesitant around Kuroo. He can’t hate him, not when Bokuto likes him so much, not when Kuroo can make Bokuto laugh just as easily as pissing him off. 

Kuroo is hesitant around him, too, Akaashi thinks. He’s careful to include Akaashi, careful to throw glances at him when Bokuto suggests something outrageous to gauge whether Kuroo should encourage or discourage Bokuto. 

“--and that’s the beauty of music. It tames the wild beast. My grandma’s cockatiel never bit me again.” Bokuto finishes the story, the lips blue and sticky from the popsicles he had “conned” Kuroo into buying for all three of them. 

It wasn’t much of a con. Bokuto had said he would pay but had forgotten his wallet at the register. The cashier girl was cute and Kuroo wanted to impress her by paying for his friend’s ice cream, even though the cashier had been willing to give them the ice cream for free. 

In the end, no one had gotten the cute girl’s number, but all of them had gotten ice cream and Akaashi is bold enough to pull out the handkerchief he started carrying around after Bokuto burned his tongue on barbecue pork and needed something to hide his tears lest Yukippe notice and use his weakness against him to claim victory in their fourth deathmatch eating contest. 

Akaashi is bold enough to press it against Bokuto’s lips and say, “Bokuto-san, please--”

Akaashi is not, however, bold enough to finish his sentence when Bokuto turns pink and looks at Akaashi with wide, wide golden eyes. 

Kuroo and Kozume are both smirking. 

. . . 

It gets worse.

With the third year players gone, Bokuto gets a little more clingy. Whereas before he and Bokuto could keep a healthy distance of post-practice practices and weekend practices and evening jogs and shared lunchtimes, now Bokuto seems to be always there. When he hits a spike, not even one of his most beautiful spikes, Bokuto seeks out Akaashi. 

His body made for movement, Bokuto dances around him, dipping and ducking his head, trying to find the same pleasure in Akaashi’s face that Bokuto is overflowing with. Bokuto owns the court, owns the space around Akaashi, and Akaashi is helpless. He can’t redraw the lines that once were there, and he finds that he doesn’t want to, either. 

For every spike, receive, and block, Bokuto demands Akaashi’s attention. He wants Akaashi to sit with him as he fills out requisition forms and then he wants Akaashi to fill out the forms for him while Bokuto drapes over his shoulders like a possessive parrot. 

Perhaps this is why Sasaki was so successful in his management of Bokuto. For all the attention Bokuto demanded, Sasaki had never faltered. He had endless head pats and cheek pinches for Bokuto. He was strong enough to push Bokuto around but gentle enough that Bokuto never sank under the reprimands. 

Even though Akaashi never leaves, he does get tired, bites his lips, his tongue. He imagines silencing Bokuto, maybe using his tie as a gag, his fingers shoved in his mouth. He doesn’t want to hurt Bokuto, not at all, but it’s so hard to stay patient and easy with a boy who doesn’t know how hard Akaashi’s heart races when he throws himself to his knees and cries, “They were out of curry bread, Akaashi!” while Akaashi’s bewildered classmates watch. 

Thankfully, Washio herds Bokuto out of the classroom, half-dragging, half-carrying their captain while Akaashi steeples his fingers and tries to fight down the ugly blush on his face. He has a reputation for being stoic, if maybe a little weird, so it won’t do for his classmates to see him die at his desk.

“Is that the star?”

“That’s our ace,” Akaashi corrects, miserable because he learned too late that humans have elephant memories for weird statements. 

So Akaashi trains. He thinks of Kuroo giving Bokuto his fingers instead of his cock and tries to apply that logic to his interactions with Bokuto. 

He watches Bokuto from the corner of his eye and doesn’t look at him when he compliments him. But he always compliments him, even if that compliment is given with a dash of reality, Akaashi will never be so strong that he can hide his love completely. 

He lets Bokuto cling, but he doesn’t cling back. He makes sure Bokuto plays nice with the other captains at training camp, makes sure Bokuto doesn’t scare away all the first-years with his booming voice and borderline tactless feedback. 

Onaga and Anahori just look amused when Bokuto oscillates between his moods. They look more than appropriately awed when Bokuto soars for a spike. They learn quickly, dropping a “senpai” here and there when Bokuto looks like he needs a push.

Washio is the only one strong enough to move Bokuto by himself, and he does so, very gracefully, when Bokuto’s energy threatens to tear apart the gymnasium. 

Konoha, Sarukui, and Komi pick up the slack as they always have. They don’t stick around for extra practice like Akaashi always does, but Konoha sometimes runs with Bokuto and Akaashi. More often than not, the entire team joins, too. Komi requests extra receiving practice so Akaashi focuses just on tossing and not Bokuto’s body, on the pale, pretty skin that flashes whenever Bokuto jumps or dives.

Sarukui starts rubbing Bokuto’s shoulders during lulls, saying something about massage being relaxing, and Akaashi almost pulls him aside and says that spoiling Bokuto like that might be worse in the long run.

But Akaashi does not, and then he is punished for his ignorance and sloth when Bokuto starts demanding shoulder massages from him.

“You can tell him no,” Konoha reminds Akaashi, for probably the 100th time since Akaashi showed up at Fukurodani. “It might be good for him to hear it sometimes.”

But Bokuto preens under Akaashi’s hands, murmurs nonsensical words of pleasure as Akaashi digs his thumbs into Bokuto’s levator scapulae. He wishes his hair was longer so he could hide his eyes from the rest of the team’s judgment.

“It might be good for you to say it sometimes, too,” Komi says slowly, eyebrow ticking up as Akaashi visibly looks like he is trying to will his spirit away. 

. . . 

_Selfish, he’s so selfish_ , Akaashi thinks. Bokuto is selfish and spoiled and self-centered. They all made a mistake by finding his capricious moods to be charming and cute. They were wrong to baby him and coddle him. He was almost eighteen, a man being scouted by professional teams. He needed to try harder. He needed to grow up. 

Selfish. Spoiled. Self-centered.

Akaashi repeats each word, quietly and certainly. He can see how devastatingly precise his attack is because Bokuto blinks each time Akaashi speaks. Akaashi calls him a baby, and Bokuto’s mouth twitches. 

But through the tirade Bokuto stays quiet, blinking until Akaashi is breathing heavy. The entire team is waiting for the bus and looking at Akaashi like he just punted a three-legged puppy across the parking lot. Konoha’s eye is twitching and Washio looks so disapproving. 

When Bokuto opens his mouth to speak, the entire team holds their breath.

“I’m sorry, Akaashi,” Bokuto says, his smile hesitant and a little self-conscious. Akaashi hates it, but he can’t take back the words he just spewed. “I’ll do better, I promise.”

And then they get on the bus, where Bokuto sits not by Akaashi, and go to training camp where Bokuto immediately tackles Kuroo and watches eagerly as Karasuno makes their stumbling debut. 

. . . 

Kuroo and Bokuto are the only ones bathing, and neither hear him as he enters the showers. Kuroo pokes at Bokuto’s belly and asks if he’s been eating extra curry bread, and Bokuto almost lunges Kuroo to the wet floor when Akaashi’s cough stops him.

“You’re both still here.”

Kuroo grins and waves. Bokuto smiles sheepishly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to say hello anymore to Akaashi after this morning’s scene. 

Akaashi claims his own stool, sets up his three-in-one soap, and listens to Bokuto and Kuroo talk about the Karasuno first-year, Tsukishima. 

“Maybe volleyball hurt him,” Bokuto muses. “Maybe his middle school team recognized he sucked and benched him and now he hates volleyball and the only reason Karasuno took him was because he’s so tall. Now he plays, but spitefully.”

“He doesn’t hate volleyball.” Kuroo leans forward on his knees. “He’s just suffering from an old-fashioned inferiority complex, which is dumb because the kid’s not hopeless. He just needs practice.”

“Or maybe volleyball hurt someone he loves.”

“Or, Bo, maybe he just needs practice. With us.”

“He could be my protege!”

“He’s not a spiker, Bo.”

“Then he could be our protege!”

Akaashi closes his eyes and washes soap out of his eyes. His head hurts. “Bokuto-san,” He calls out. “Have you washed your hair yet?”

He squints at him and catches sight of Bokuto’s guilty face. Akaashi sighs.

“I’ll wash your hair for you.” It’s an apology that he has to voice, but he’s not about to give Kuroo that kind of ammunition. “Please stop moving.”

He uses his own soap and ignores Kuroo’s knowing smile. He also tries to ignore Bokuto’s look of wonderment as Akaashi works soap into his hair. Bokuto should be closing his eyes, but, like always, Akaashi compensates for him and gently places his hand on Bokuto’s forehead so the soap can’t get into his eyes. 

This is how Akaashi apologizes. If he says the words, Bokuto tends to stare and cock his head and ask _why_ Akaashi is apologizing. Even if his face twisted in hurt, even if Akaashi is the reason Bokuto’s entire body slumped to the floor, Bokuto always forgets the harshness. He doesn’t let himself be weighed down by anything other than his own weaknesses. Under Akaashi’s weakness, Bokuto’s shoulders are strong. 

So Akaashi, in his guilt, coddles and fusses. When Bokuto sunburns because Akaashi refused to help him reapply sunscreen, Akaashi rubs aloe onto his tender skin. When Akaashi stops Bokuto from trying to climb a tree when they’re taking team pictures and yanks too hard so Bokuto lands on his ass, Akaashi lets him cling and complain and then promises yakiniku if Bokuto can stay still for three photos. When Akaashi refuses to stay behind and practice, once in a blue moon, the next morning Akaashi repents by helping Bokuto stretch. He bends into a lunge and pushes Bokuto’s legs close to his chest, one hand planted in that tender space between Bokuto’s shorts and knee pads, one hand cupping the generous curve of Bokuto’s thigh. _Deeper_ , Bokuto demands, handsome face ruddy from warm-ups, _Akaashi, I’m still tight_ \--

On those days, Washio gently nudges him out of the way and helps Bokuto finish stretching, and Akaashi disappears to the bathroom to dump cold water on his balls lest he traumatizes his teammates any further. Akaashi’s guilt gets worse those days because he jerks off on a fantasy of Bokuto, mouth parted, wet and open, knees to his chest, and Akaashi fucking him. 

If Bokuto only knew how easy Akaashi was for him, how hard Akaashi works to keep pace in every way, how hard Akaashi works so Bokuto can soar.

From this close, hands in Bokuto’s hair, he can feel the heat Bokuto gives off. He thinks about how Bokuto whined for shoulder massages, and so Akaashi gently, just once, rubs Bokuto’s broad shoulders. He’s not going to apologize in front of Kuroo, but he does spend extra time washing the soap out of Bokuto’s hair, running his fingers through the strands so nothing remains. 

Through it all, Bokuto watches him, smiling. “I’m glad you’re not cranky anymore,” Bokuto continues, unaware that Akaashi is done washing his hair and is gently massaging Bokuto’s scalp instead. “But even if you are, that’s okay. More than anyone, you can get mad at me. I don’t mind.”

Akaashi doesn’t know what to say to that, not now after he weaponized his own frustration and unrequited love and then turned them on Bokuto whose only crime was to ask Akaashi if they could sit together on the bus.

Kuroo’s still in the room, soaking in the hot water. But Akaashi still whispers, “You’re not selfish or spoiled or self-centered.”

“No, no. I definitely am.” Bokuto corrects him. “You wouldn’t have said so if it weren’t true. But I’ll work on it, Akaashi. I promised you.”

For not the first time, and certainly not the last, Bokuto leaves him speechless.

But it hurts.

. . . 

Bokuto is a force of nature, the reason why storms are named after people, probably, and Akaashi can see even Tsukishima is helpless to resist. Hinata never stood a chance. Even with years of exposure, even Kuroo sways like a sapling before Bokuto. 

Bokuto thrives off of it. He knows--he has to--how loved he is, how adored. Maybe he takes it for granted, but, in response, Bokuto is free with his own affection. He compliments his teammates as often as he compliments himself. He’s never bitter than Konoha will pass to others before him, never upset when Washio’s straight gets the point instead of Bokuto’s cross. Komi tears his body apart keeping the ball in, and Bokuto screams “nice receive” and “nice save” until his voice is hoarse. 

(Bokuto sits with Akaashi after bad games. He doesn’t sugar coat anything, but he slaps Akaashi on the back and says, “For someone so smart, you can be kind of dumb” and “We’re going to win the rest of them” and “I’ll do better, Akaashi. I promise.”)

The first years get the brunt of Bokuto’s attention during practice. During games, all eyes are on Bokuto, but during practice, Bokuto flits around with advice and onomatopoeias. He calls out the furrow in Onaga’s brow and demands to know why he isn’t having fun.

“This isn’t fun,” Onaga huffs. He’s drenched with sweat, his knees shaking. It’s been thirty minutes of blocking practice against Bokuto’s spikes. “This is exhausting.”

Bokuto blinks and squats down so he can peer up into Onaga’s eyes. “Well, yeah. Volleyball is always exhausting. And blocking is the worst. I wouldn’t want to block me, either.”

Onaga continues to breathe hard. He’s hunched over and staring down at Bokuto like he knows Bokuto has a map and Onaga has to follow him, but he’s not positive that they still won’t get lost. 

“But we won’t win if you can’t block or if I can’t get a spike through.” Bokuto doesn’t even blink, but there must be something in his eyes that Onaga sees because the younger boy just nods and wipes his face with his jersey. “Just a lil bit more, and then Akaashi will buy us popsicles.”

“I will not,” Akaashi replies. “Bokuto-san, I’m not buying you popsicles.”

Akaashi ends up buying the popsicles. 

. . . 

Akaashi knows he’s attractive. He knows he’s smart. He might not know exactly the kind of boy Bokuto likes, but Akaashi knows he is the kind of boy people like. 

Girls confess to him. Curious boys give him whip-quick side glances. Even Bokuto tells him he’s pretty, has gentle and strong hands, and looks like a supermodel when Akaashi shows up to team dinner in a soft green sweater and brown overcoat. 

But Bokuto compliments almost everyone. Even Tsukishima, with his eyes that threaten violence if Bokuto is too familiar, turns pink when Bokuto compliments him on blocking Bokuto’s rebound. 

(Akaashi only takes a little pleasure in getting a dump past Tsukishima’s block in the next practice match. He only smirks a little bit.)

Even his rivals are handsome heroes in Bokuto’s eyes. Ushijima and Sakusa are knights. Kiryuu is a muscled fighter with biceps the size of Bokuto’s head and a chest that could probably block three volleyballs at once. Ojiro is also a knight, but with fox ears. 

Bokuto is the kind of boy people like. When he stands on the court, hands in the air, shouting “Hey hey hey” while the crowd roars, undulates at it cheers the ace on, Bokuto is godlike. All eyes are on him, and he soars. He’s handsome and strong and so alive that Akaashi, holding Bokuto's jacket, wonders how cruel it is that Bokuto’s grandeur is tied to the court and not to the skies as he deserves. 

Bokuto gets so many confessions. He gets so many chocolates on Valentine’s that he shares them with the team. He breaks so many hearts, and Akaashi wonders how long until his heart joins the pile at Bokuto’s feet. How presumptuous of Akaashi to think that he knew love, that he knew he loved Bokuto so early in his life. How lazy of Akaashi to think that it was impossible to love Bokuto more.

It was only improbable. Bokuto catches him off guard once again.

. . . 

For a third time--a third time--Akaashi catches Bokuto and Kuroo. This time Bokuto is on his knees with Kuroo’s cock in his mouth. Kuroo fucks into him gently, whispering, “Breathe, Bo,” when Bokuto hiccups when Kuroo goes just a little too deep. 

“You’re so good. You’re the best.” Kuroo keeps talking, soft, sweet words that make Bokuto paw at his waist, his arms, until Kuroo cradles Bokuto’s face. “There’s no one better than you.”

Akaashi doesn’t hide this time. He watches. He memorizes the way Bokuto bobs his head, the way Kuroo directs him softly. They’re too caught up in each other, and Akaashi has to remind himself twice that Bokuto and Kuroo are friends. Friends that fuck, but friends nonetheless. 

Akaashi thinks of his own fantasies, ones where Bokuto nuzzles and suckles his cock until Akaashi comes on his face. Ones where Bokuto spreads himself on the locker room bench so Akaashi can slide in. Ones where Bokuto demands kisses while riding him. Ones where Bokuto fingers himself, riding his own hand while Akaashi asks if it was really that important to run headlong into the woods to find an owl, _do you think you deserve to come, Bokuto-san?_

This is better. But this is Bokuto and Kuroo. This is Bokuto on his knees while Kuroo loves him in a base way, in the Akaashi has been imagining since Bokuto decided hierarchies were boring and Akaashi could teach him anything and everything and Bokuto would listen. 

Kuroo catches sight of him, opens his mouth to speak, but Akaashi shakes his head. He hopes the warning in his eyes is clear.

. . . 

“Sometimes, sometimes you just have to go for it,” Kuroo says. Hands in his pocket, slouching, and Akaashi doesn’t understand what Bokuto sees in Kuroo beyond their similar tendencies to wreak havoc. “Bokuto likes attention, but it’s all the same to him. So you just have to go for it.”

. . . 

Bokuto will have other setters. Better setters, Akaashi knows. Maybe one day will toss better than Akaashi. They’ll have steadier hands, stronger hands. They’ll be geniuses and be able to keep pace with Bokuto. A spiker and a setter.

Eventually, Akaashi will be left behind, no longer anchored to Bokuto’s star as it shoots across the sky. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says. “I suppose now I have to buy season passes to Jackals’ games.”

Bokuto’s incandescent, all big eyes and movement as he dances around Akaashi after his first professional game. His teammates have all been bumped and hugged, and now Akaashi is left. Like usual. 

“Did you see that? Did you see that spike? That receive?” Bokuto asks. “You were totally impressed, weren’t you, Akaashi? Right, right, right--”

“You were amazing, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi wants to hold Bokuto. His smile is too big for his face, and Bokuto returns it ten-fold. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Bokuto’s a star, alight and blinding and Akaashi isn’t naive anymore. He can’t hold Bokuto in his hands, can’t tether him to the ground. But he can follow Bokuto. He’s kept pace before, he can still do it. 

“Good,” Bokuto says. He sweeps forward, demand in every limb. Akaashi gives in, like always, and answers. He holds him when Bokuto pushes close. “I don’t want you to.”

“Don’t want me to what?”

“Take your eyes off me. Look at me forever, Akaashi.”

. . . 

“Forever is a long time, Bokuto-san.”

“I know, that’s why I said it. And I know it’s probably hard, but give me forever, Akaashi.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> No thoughts, just Bokuto slamming 100 spikes while Akaashi suffers.
> 
> Title taken from Glass Animals' "Heat Waves."


End file.
